


can't wait to cast my spell (which one you'll never tell)

by xerampelinae



Series: kko [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, and they were ROOMMATES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xerampelinae/pseuds/xerampelinae
Summary: “I think you could kill someone with these, if you’re not careful.”“Probably,” Keith says. “Or if you’re trying to.”Shiro grins to himself as he works off the other shoe. “Wherever you’re looking for murder and murderer,” he says, “you’re definitely not looking for Dr. Shirogane, in the dressing room, with the ten inch stiletto.”-Keith's a musician paying musical tribute at Honerva's Secret Fashion Show. Shiro's in the audience as his guest.





	can't wait to cast my spell (which one you'll never tell)

**Author's Note:**

> This one gets a little spicier than I usually manage...catch the innuendo!

“Please welcome Keith Kogane to Honerva’s Secret Fashion Show,” an announcer calls. The crowd quiets. The silhouettes of a shadowed group of dancers becomes apparent where they stand on the ultramodern, glowing catwalk.

“Here we go,” Keith calls out, and then the first chords of the song sound out. The rising light reveals Keith and a cadre of Blades of Marmora as they begin to move rhythmically. They’re not the first primarily male act to perform for Honerva’s Secret, but they’re the only ones who aren’t following male performers’ typically lower-effort performance wardrobing. 

The set’s wardrobe draws heavily from the Lady Gaga performance of A-Yo/John Wayne as a tribute; the already towering Blades wear heeled boots, harnesses and sheer lace bodices. Keith’s in black heels and a glittering black catsuit; when the jacket shifts, the straight cut of the neckline peeks out and emphasizes the definition of his chest. The structure of the bodice sufficiently cinches and accentuates Keith’s waist to invoke an hourglass figure as was much-lauded in the ‘luh yah Papi’ music video.

Once Keith and the Blades start dancing--accompanied down the catwalk by Thace and Ulaz as they provide back-up instrumentation--it’s hard to look away from them. There’s something hypnotic about the way Keith and the Blades fluidly move their hips--and something soft about the way Keith’s hair moves too, at least what’s free from the bun at his nape--and then the Blades move as one, surrounding Keith and raising him into the air as the lights dim. They rise and fall in hypnotic syncopation, thighs flexing powerfully and hands dragging down their sides.

When the lights come back, Keith’s lost the jacket, gained a glittering hat trimmed sparsely with long glittering strings and traded his heels for ten inch stilettos.

“Holy shit,” is an audible murmur, spreading like a ripple through the crowd. The dancers walk away, the models begin to descend, and Keith moves with poise and confidence without missing a beat or note. Shiro’s jaw drops in wonder.

Keith is always strikingly beautiful to watch. Seeing him styled like this is always a visual suckerpunch, invoking high fashion while challenging the disparities in effort across gender expression and performance art. Shiro knows that the make-up artists offered to conceal Keith’s scars, and that Keith had refused. Everyone knows the scar that crosses Keith’s cheek, stark and unapologetic; Keith has never concealed it, nor ever answered any questions about it. Until now, the scar cleaving Keith’s shoulder was unknown to any beyond Shiro and a handful of Blades.

There’s an undeniable duality to Keith: the hardness of his musculature, his scars and the softness of the curves emphasized by this borrowed wardrobe designed around the catwalk of a lingerie fashion show. It takes Shiro’s breath away-- _Keith_ takes Shiro’s breath away, every day--with a look, with a sigh, with his love. Shiro is so grateful to be there for him and with him.

“Who's your favorite model?” a man named Rolo had asked, before the show had started and people were still finding their seats.

“Actually, I’m here because my friend's performing,” Shiro had said, and the man had given him a bemused _Yeah right_ sort of look. Shiro’s in a nice charcoal suit--Kolivan had told Keith that he needed a good suit, and Keith took that to mean that Shiro also needed a good suit--of quiet quality and timeless cut, but it doesn’t scream its bespoke nature. Most of the audience is in clothing that screams of high-end designer origins, including Rolo.

Keith turns his burning gaze unerringly to Shiro as he sings about wanting a _real_ man, and he thinks he hears Rolo choke beside him. He doesn’t check though; the sound doesn’t persist and Keith’s striding down the catwalk like a storm front.

Kolivan comes down the runway to take Keith’s hat and Shiro realizes he's been dancing backup the whole performance. Keith and Kolivan move together like sinuous predators laying a trap; for once Kolivan’s hair is half-up, loose from its braid, and it flares tantalizingly as they dance together.

Finally Kolivan turns away and strides away, and two Blades bring a bloodred jacket complete with black wings. Keith looks like an avenging angel as he stalks down to the very end of the catwalk, hips swaying and feet sure. He poses for a heart-stopping moment--unsmiling and unapologetic and _beautiful_ \--then he's gliding away, wings flaring up behind him.

Shiro’s up and off his seat with the rest of the crowd before Keith’s left the catwalk. The models and performers walk back out to a standing ovation. 

-

“How was it?” Keith murmurs, still aglow with exertion. He looks at the steps that the models climb with some concern and Shiro reaches up, gripping his waist gently. Keith settles his hands on Shiro’s shoulders and for a moment it’s just the two of them as Shiro lowers Keith down with painstaking care. Keith’s hands settle lower, showcasing the dark red nail polish he’d applied the night before: a clean, even coat that’s less flashy and more old Hollywood. Distracting in its newness. “Thanks, Shiro.”

“No problem,” Shiro says, beaming distractedly at him as he checks to make sure they're not in anyone's way. “It was an amazing show.”

“Good,” Keith says, swaying closer to Shiro, who stills himself obligingly. 

“Is there anywhere you need to be?” Shiro asks.

“Maybe the dressing room,” Keith says, “so I can swap out my shoes. If you don't mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Shiro says, grinning at Keith. “Unless you like finally being taller than me.”

Keith laughs at this. “I'm good,” he says. “Will you let me hold your arm? The models tell me it’s very romantic and practical to do so.”

“I'm at your service,” Shiro says, too soft and fond to be taken as a joke. Keith takes his arm and smiles at him, mind working to plot out the way back to the dressing room he and the Blades share.

“I think I need a doctor after that last performance,” a loud voice says over the backstage chatter. 

Immediately, Keith’s on guard, which means that Shiro’s hackles are up too.

“Is there anything I should worry about?” Shiro says in an undertone. 

Keith narrows his eyes and scans the wide room, pausing a few paces away. “Kolivan’s here,” he says. “So it shouldn’t be a problem.”

At precisely that moment, the crowd of lingerie-clad models and the support team parts with a series of discomforted and distasteful looks, darting away from a man who looks ready to let his hands wander.

“Keith, precious--” the man says, arms swinging carelessly in the crowded room as he tries to close the distance between them.

Instinctively, Shiro shifts forward; he’s taller than this stranger, and with less of a gut. A better question is whether Shiro looks mean enough to scare off this stranger, who looks like nothing friendly.

“--Tell me you got something for me,” the man says. “Something _sweet.”_

Blank-faced, Keith asks, “Did you just try to solicit me for sex?”

“Nah,” the man says, winking in what is probably intended to be an enticing look. “I just want some juicy details. I hear you’ve started running with an older man, tell me about him.”

“Who?” Keith says.

“Some gent with a braid,” the man says, waving his hand like the details are unimportant.

Shiro turns to look for security and restrains a sigh of relief when he sees Kolivan approaching, still styled for the performance.

“Please step away from my client,” Kolivan says gravely.

The man turns and scoffs, still puffing up his chest and drawing his shoulders back to emphasize his size despite the way Kolivan towers over him. “Yeah?” he says. “You and what authority, bitch? I’m just having a little conversation here.”

“I am his legal council,” Kolivan says. “If you do not leave now, I will have security escort you from the premises and I will contact whatever counselor accepts your case with an elevated retainer fee following your dismissal from your position as a tabloid reporter.”

At once a shadow falls across the man’s face and he looks up, and up, and up still. He finally swallows nervously, seeing the legion of Blades assembled from the assorted dancers and musicians present for the performance. To a Blade, their arms cross firmly over broad, muscled chests traced with harness straps and sheer lace or solid cotton broadcloth, unbothered by the exertions of the recent performance if aglow with sweat. The closest description that could be given of the atmosphere would be to describe it as the moments before a Bacchian frenzy, in which a person might even be torn apart by those that they love. Finally, however, security guards descend on the man and escort him briskly away.

“I will take care of the violation of the anti-harassment injunction,” Kolivan says, and disappears.

Keith sighs and Shiro laughs, softened from its nervous edge. 

“I thought he was going to get torn apart in a Bacchian frenzy,” Shiro says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

A huff of laughter escapes Keith. “That would have been a sight to see--and hold that thought, I think that’ll be a song eventually,” he says, and “I’m not sure but I think he just implied I was dating Kolivan.”

“Not even that,” Shiro says. “That was full sugar daddy implication.”

For a long moment, Shiro and Keith stare at each other. Then they break down laughing, Keith bending at the waist to drape his arms back around Shiro’s shoulders and curl over him.

“He’s my godfather,” Keith says, flush with laughter.

“I know,” Shiro says, hands settling on Keith’s waist, higher than it normally is.

“He’s my lawyer,” Keith says. “And yours.”

“I know,” Shiro says, shoulders shaking.

“I don’t think I can move,” Keith says. “If I let go of you I’ll probably fall.”

“Well,” Shiro says. “I can help with that.”

With only mild maneuvering, Shiro hefts Keith into his arms. “Where can the starship Shirogane take you?” Shiro says.

“Hmm,” Keith says, leaning into Shiro’s chest. “How about somewhere I can get out of these shoes?”

-

Keith ends up needing help with the shoes; a dresser whisks away with the red jacket and Keith lets Shiro lower him into a chair.

“Look at it this way,” Shiro says so he doesn’t stare at the way Keith’s legs are flexing. He knows too much about the way they feel wrapped around him; if he thought staring at Keith in his glasses or on set was dangerous, the knowledge of Keith warm and welcoming around him is even more dangerous. Keith is a dangerous man. “You’ve done your calisthenics for today, and also endurance training.”

“I might also need your help getting undressed,” Keith admits. Shiro pauses with his hands on the hidden zipper of one boot. Keith’s arms disappear awkwardly behind his back, drawing his clavicles into sharp relief. “I don’t think I can get out of this by myself.”

“Hm?” Shiro says eloquently.

“I can’t bend enough,” Keith says, letting his arms fall. “Not dressed like this.”

“Alright,” Shiro says, and finally slides the zipper down. Keith leans back in the chair, bracing against its armrests as Shiro effortfully drags the shoe off. Sighing, Keith crosses his legs and brings his other foot into reach while Shiro carefully sets the shoe aside. “I think you could kill someone with these, if you’re not careful.”

“Probably,” Keith says. “Or if you’re trying to.”

Shiro grins to himself as he works off the other shoe. “Wherever you’re looking for murder and murderer,” he says, “you’re definitely not looking for Dr. Shirogane, in the dressing room, with the ten inch stiletto.”

“I’m pretty sure it was actually Mr. Kogane with the hat,” Keith says, wiggling his freed toes joyfully.

“The hat?” Shiro says, laughing a little. “How did the hat get used as a murder weapon?”

“It’s a special hat,” Keith says. “You see these dangling string elements? Murder strings.”

“Hm,” Shiro says, grinning fondly up at Keith from where he’s crouched between his legs. Then there's a knock on the door as Kolivan walks in and Shiro blushes, forcing himself up off his knees. Keith winks at him--Shiro’s brain stalls because wow, that was unexpectedly cute--and slides off the chair, body brushing Shiro’s. “Well, let's get you into something a little more comfortable.”

“Thanks, Shiro,” Keith says, and turns, bracing his weight against the chair. It’s a losing battle to not think of certain other things but Shiro does his best. There’s a moment when Shiro grapples with the fasteners--a series of hook and eye catches--that constricts Keith’s waist further and has his back arching, then he's free, chest heaving freely. With only a distracted grin over his shoulder, Keith bends over and drags the jumpsuit down past his hips until it's low enough to drag down his ankles and be stepped out of. 

Without meaning to, Shiro squeaks. As usual, Keith’s not wearing any underwear. Which makes sense with the smooth, clinging cut of the suit. At this moment, Shiro’s bulk is the only thing between Keith’s naked body and the rest of the world. Keith’s not shy, per se, but he’s always been very private. And every time he shows his trust in Shiro--implicitly or explicitly--it stuns him. Shiro can only watch as Keith wraps himself into his own suit and kneels to pull on his boots.

Keith’s concealed bits disappear under cloth: the shoulder scar, the dimples that Shiro likes to press kisses to, and the cat astronaut socks that Shiro’d bought him several New Year’s Days before, for the lucky red of the yarn moons.

“Ready to go?” Keith says. He stands close and smiles sweetly up at Shiro as he searches the inner pocket of his blazer, face softening as he finds his prize. Shiro focuses on Keith’s face over the warmth of his touch; otherwise they won't make it out of the dressing room, even with Kolivan still in the room.

“Yeah,” Shiro manages.

“Once more, unto the breach,” Keith says, tugging on his favorite pair of fingerless gloves.

-

On the other side of the crowd are a line of reporters clustered around some of the other performers and even Honerva herself, flanked by her tall Galran husband.

“What are your thoughts on tonight’s performance?” one reporter asks.

“We are all quite grateful for the talented persons who came together to make tonight possible,” Honerva says.

“Is it true that you tried to hire the Knowledge or Death avant garde group?” another reporter asks.

Honerva masks the steel in her eyes quite well for the most part, but Shiro catches it, swallowing nervously. “Unfortunately,” she says, “due to their nature, we were unable to contact Knowledge or Death to make arrangements. However tonight’s performance was quite remarkable.”

“They don’t know?” Shiro whispers into Keith’s ear. Keith silently shakes his head. “How?”

Keith shrugs. “Hoods and masks?” he whispers back.

“So how did tonight happen?” Shiro asks.

“It worked itself out,” Keith says evenly.

“That it did,” Shiro sighs.

Then the reporters catch sight of Keith and the sharp lines of him. “Keith--” one says, wandering over. “That was quite the performance, anything you want to say?”

“I hope everyone enjoyed the show,” Keith says.

“Anything you want to say regarding these more effortful performances you do as tributes, which are far more elaborate than your typical shows?”

“It’s a deliberate choice,” Keith says, inclining his head. “To highlight the difference in expectations of performance. I greatly respect all the performers I pay tribute to, just as I am deeply grateful for the support of my team in newer ventures such as these.”

“And who’s this handsome young man?” the reporter asks, peering at Shiro like they’re trying to place him.

“This is Dr. Shirogane,” Keith says. Shiro nods in bashful affirmation.

“Oh,” the reporter says, mouth forming an even circle.

“He’s here as my guest tonight,” Keith says.

The reporter continues staring, open-mouthed.

“Good night,” Shiro murmurs, and then they’re slipping away from the reporters and breaking from the crowd.

“Home again?” Keith murmurs.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “Let’s go home.”

-

Shiro and Keith are adult men with a paid-off house in the suburbs of a relatively large city--they're very lucky, they freely admit, when anyone asks about the house. The laundry room is attached to one of the entryways, and is in fact curtained off and covered with privacy film for the sole purpose of allowing them to strip on arrival home. Their shoes are the first things to come off, right at the threshold. Then they drift apart as they strip, tossing washables into the hamper and draping the suits onto hangers until they can be dry-cleaned.

The hanger weighed down with Shiro’s entire suit almost falls out of his hand when Keith meets his eyes with a familiar burning look, body a long lean line of bare flesh and one hand raised up, almost like an invitation. Without looking away, Shiro hangs up his suit. Keith sets his teeth into the leather of one glove and tugs it off, teasingly slow. Shiro searches for that perfect glimmer but it’s the wrong hand. The glove drops to the floor and Shiro takes a step forward.

“You’re teasing me,” Shiro says.

“Are you enjoying it?” Keith says, raising his still-gloved hand. He looks like a statue of some forgotten god or hero, at whose feet one might kneel and offer up their worship and praise.

“Yes,” Shiro sighs. Keith’s teeth flash white and dig into black leather, dragging it off at the same tantalizing pace. Emboldened, Shiro takes another step forward, and another. The second glove falls and Shiro reaches for Keith’s hand. 

“There you are,” Shiro murmurs, and presses a kiss to the eternity band--black diamonds set in platinum, more slender and elegant than men’s rings often are--and chases his way up Keith’s body with one kiss after another.

“Here I am,” Keith sighs, draped luxuriously along Shiro’s front. Even in the open air of their home the heat of their bodies chases away the chill. “What’re you going to do with me?”

“Well,” Shiro says, hand settling at Keith’s nape and the other sliding down to his thigh. “The bedroom seems too far away.”

“In the laundry room?” Keith says with mock seriousness, and then they’re laughing and clutching each other close.

“Actually, I was thinking about the kitchen,” Shiro says, pressing his grin into Keith’s product-stiffened hair. “And bending you over the counter.”

“Hm,” Keith says, arms tightening around Shiro. “Let’s go.”

-

Keith and Shiro have things they like when they do this, many of which they have discovered to be complementary. They don’t always involve accessing the kitchen drawer that’s slightly hidden from view, but a number of them do. Tonight has the drawer pulled wide open and within reach.

“Just so you know,” Keith says, voice breaking on a moan, “any Galra who came in here would know--”

“Good,” Shiro says, tongue darting out to lap at the sweat gathering on Keith’s jaw. “If they come into this house, they should know where we stand.”

A huff of laughter escapes Keith and he loosens his grip on the counter to slide his hand over to where Shiro’s braced himself and admire the contrasts: Shiro’s hand, large against Keith’s, and with a ring in mirror of Keith’s: white diamonds set in tungsten.

“Shiro--” Keith says desperately, linking their hands, and turning to seek a kiss. Shiro’s there without another word, kiss full and lush even with the awkwardness of the angle.

“You’re so good to me,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith shakes apart beneath his hands.

-

Articles about the performance are already posted online by the time they get up in the morning, dressed once more in soft, worn clothing per usual.

_Married? KKO’s Beefcake Costar Off The Singles Market_ one article reads, with an accompanying visual of an incredibly zoomed-in cellphone photo of what might be a ring on Shiro’s left hand.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro says, cradling a hot cup of tea and leaning close enough to read over Keith’s shoulder with one hand on it. “Did you secretly elope when the public wasn’t watching?”

“Maybe,” Keith says, tipping his head back and grinning at Shiro. He tugs Shiro’s hand closer and presses a kiss to the ring there. “Just watching to see how long it takes for them to figure it out.”

“Could be a long wait,” Shiro says.

Keith presses a kiss to one knuckle, and then the next, until he’s made his way down the row. “Well,” he says. “At least I’ve got good company.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Lady Gaga's "A-Yo" and performance heavily borrowed from her Victoria's Secret Fashion Show performance of "A-Yo/John Wayne". As I cannot dance, this one was a little bit of a struggle for me, but I hope it was enjoyable!  
> Thank you to spookyfoot for being my conspirator.  
> Catch me on twitter @belovedbacon


End file.
